I hear they have great acoustics in Hell
by unrepentantAuthor
Summary: Brief drabble done for coursework some time ago about Aziraphale and Crowley chatting about nonsense.


There is a common misconception that angels are keen players of harps. This is not, in fact, the case. Aziraphale had tried it once with little success, earning himself several sore fingers instead. Seraphim are generally incapable of understanding music. Anthony Crowley, in contrast, was a talented musician, preferring classical scores with violin or piano. Despite rarely playing, he often mocked his heavenly friend for his musical failings. It is said Hell has all the best tunes. Crowley certainly thought so, having composed a fair few of them himself.

Imagine a dusty bookshop laden with decrepit manuscripts so ancient they most closely resemble the Yellow Pages. Most of them are religious in nature. One is a collection of scrolls signed in shaky handwriting 'from John of Patmos to my good friend Aziraphale'. Another is the original King James Bible.

There are two figures in the shop, so different as to be polar opposites. Aziraphale wears a beige coat and the sort of striped jumper that is associated with especially elderly English professors. His hair is blond, his eyes a startling pale blue. With enough willpower, one might gaze long enough to see the white fire behind them.

Crowley's eyes are hidden by shaded glasses, which he seldom removes. His features and garments are dark; black hair, black glasses, black jacket, black jeans, black tie, (loosened in what he imagines to be a rakish fashion) and a shirt the colour of blood. He has a disturbing habit of flicking out his tongue, snake-like. He is resting impeccably shined black boots on a priceless three-thousand year-old copy of Genesis.

Nobody noticed the bookstore, and nobody paid attention to its occupants. Absolutely nobody whatsoever gave them a second glance should they accidentally see them. Very definitely, nobody at all would look hard enough to notice the wings. There are certain perquisites associated with divinity, including the ability to deflect attention. Humans simply ignored them.

"I'm telling you, I'm telling you, you're better off on our side," slurred the demon. "We've got Mozart. We have Beethoven. You have no _idea_ what the acoustics are like Down Below!"

"And I hope I never do," muttered the angel in reply. "Please don't try to tempt me, Anthony."

"I bet you've got _cacāre_ acoustics. Rubbish sound. You're thingy. S'a wossname. Jealous."

"Coveter?" Aziraphale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Tha's the one," exclaimed Crowley in triumph. "Coveteteter. It's against your... uh. Doohickey."

"Commandments?" The angel wearily removed his friend's boots from the artifact.

"Yeah!" Crowley leaned forward conspiratorially. "That makes you like me. Bad-guy. Fallen angel. Join me and feast on the souls of mankind in everlasting damnéd glory!"

"You're drunk, Anthony," Aziraphale recited, snapping his fingers.

"You bet I am," he cried, before grimacing as the alcohol vanished from his bloodstream. "What did you have to go and do that for, huh? I come up with my best ideas after a shot. You can blame me for the electric car. I got a commendation for it."

Aziraphale and Crowley were embarrassments to their respective allegiances. Aziraphale had indirectly caused a great deal of misfortunate events, mostly in pursuit of his beloved manuscripts, and Crowley hadn't so much fallen from grace as wandered vaguely downwards. Neither much had the stomach for serious salvation or damnation.

"Nevertheless, you know you'd get fed up after Doomsday. Harps and such? Seriously? I remember Gabriel. He's in charge now, am I right? He's _awful_. Always so _serious_ and _dogmatic_." Crowley smirked, his teeth far too sharp for comfort.

"You have your own rules, Anthony," murmured the angel, turning a page of his copy of Genesis. The notes in the margins left by the author were most helpful for translation.

"Yeah, but I stopped trying to keep with it after your lot nuked Sodom and Gomorrah. Figured it was pointless. There was a lovely little cake shop in Gomorrah."

"No, there wasn't, you cheeky little _mentula_."

Crowley grinned, his glasses gleaming. "Language, language. Watch your tongue, Az. I tell you, you'd make a great fallen angel."

"Face it, Anthony; none of my lot is perfect. I can't manage goodness and most of the top brass Up Above enjoy smiting a little too much. It's all because of ineffability I suppose. What about you? When was the last time you signed a contract for someone's soul?"

Crowley's grin vanished. He scowled and removed his glasses to polish them. His eyes were dark amber, with slits for pupils. "413AD if you must know."

Crowley neglected to mention it, but the case in question was an accident. He'd meant to give the man a contract for Westminster Bridge but had unknowingly exchanged it for a standard soul-pact scroll. The demon had only ever signed over one soul legitimately and that was over three-thousand years ago.

To be fair, Aziraphale's greatest miracle of salvation to date was rescuing a cat from a tree.

"I must admit, I'm beginning to wonder if it's even possible for humans to obey every law. I don't think I've ever seen one manage it. It worries me that I think that, actually. It can't be right for an angel to doubt."

"Well," sighed the demon, "you don't get proper Satanists these days, either. Nobody ever _wants_ to be evil. I don't. Where's the fun in it?"

This was true. It was generally agreed by the demonology community that the last genuine cult of Hell was the Ancient Priesthood of Mu, which went extinct in 2003. Dark Brotherhoods never lasted for very long. The members tended to be incinerated when they called upon demons that weren't especially inclined to confine themselves to pentagrams, particularly the ones summoned midway through their lunch.

"I'm sort of dreading Doomsday," muttered Aziraphale. "If our side was predestined to win there wouldn't be a war, would there? And I can't say I won't miss certain things. Do you think they'll serve boiled eggs afterwards?"

Crowley licked his teeth in his animalistic way, and then slid his shades back on and groaned. "Don't tell me that was the first thing you thought of. I'd assumed you angelic types would blather on about the glow of sunlight at dawn the laughter of children or some such bollocks."

Aziraphale shot him a glare. "And what would you have to look forward to? Lakes of sulphur weren't good for your health last time I heard."

The demon shrugged, and downed the last of his drink. "I don't bloody know, do I, Az? Listen, this isn't the best time for a profound discussion about the pros and cons of the aforementioned everlasting damnéd glory. I have to commit at least one cardinal sin by tonight or Hastur will want to have a word with me. Look, my next break is sometime next century, so I guess I'll see you then."

Aziraphale nodded resignedly, dog-earing his priceless relic. "I guess so. Do try to make it something mild, would you? Like seriously coveting someone's boiled egg."


End file.
